Unspoken
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "The voice is muffled, the tone half-lost to the weight of the door between Yuri and the speaker; but he knows that chirping tone, has spent too many wasted hours of his life listening to it in interviews and echoing over the cool clear of a skating rink, and he's on his feet and making for the door before he can think." Yuri processes a loss and Viktor offers comfort.


Yuri doesn't want to talk to anyone.

The fact of the loss is bad enough. It's enough of a struggle to wake up every morning with his heart strangely heavy, with his memory lagging behind before the recollection hits him again, as fresh and hard as if it were the first time. Bad enough that Yuri finds himself frozen still for minutes at a time, losing gaps of attention to the hiccuping tears that he can never stop, once they start, or worse still the flat ache that comes after, when his tears are cried and his heart is empty and still that weight of loss refuses to ease from his chest. He's tired all the time, all he wants to do is sleep until the exhaustion eases, until the burden becomes manageable; but his dreams are awful, nightmarish visions of grief and loss that drag him to consciousness with his hands shaking and his face wet with tears or the gold-hazed memories that are worse for the renewed sense of loss that hits when he awakes to the house empty of any but himself, now, and is left to try to find the shape of a continued existence among the shadows of the one that has ended.

Everyone is very kind. Yakov offered his sympathy with gruff words and a stare that faced outward instead of meeting Yuri's gaze and offered to let him take time off from his practice if he needed it. Lilia insisted that he wouldn't miss a single opportunity to train, her glare as stern as if Yuri had suggested it instead of herself, and then had caught her arms around him to give him a hug as stiff as Yuri had felt his shoulders go at the sudden contact. They mean well, Yuri knows, and there's some part of him that appreciates the attempt if not the reminder; but there are the fans, too, thousands of them, showering every corner of his internet with sympathy and tears and expressions of loss so great they overshadow his own, as if they're putting on a performance that far outweighs what little communication on the subject Yuri has been willing to offer. His friends have been a little better: Yuuko called him the day she heard the news to ask how he was doing, and Otabek sent a single text of _sorry for your loss_ that offered far more comfort to Yuri than the outpourings of support and tearful videos his fans bombard him with. Mila hugged him the first day he came back to the rink, wrapping her arms around him with red eyes and a silent voice, and Yuri had to pull his hood over his face to hide how wet his eyes were for minutes after she let him go to resume her own practice.

Everyone is very kind, and very understanding; and Yuri hates it all with a passion so brittle with viciousness that it offers him some measure of consolation, far more than the excessive sympathy and delicate touch everyone seems to think he needs. He goes to practice, and he sets his jaw, and he skates like his life depends on it, like it's the only way to let his emotions spill free, and he goes home with his legs shaking and his eyes blurry and leaves the light off when he comes in the front door so he doesn't have to see the way tears leave damp spots against the sleeve of his hoodie as he makes dinner for one person instead of for two. After the first day he stops checking his social media sites, stops uploading pictures or checking the generic messages he receives, and when Yuuko texts him to ask how he's doing he says _Fine_ and turns his phone off too. It's better in the silence anyway, he decides, easier to be in peace with his own thoughts, and if it doesn't untangle the endless ache of tears in his chest at least there's no one there to see him cry them.

He knows everyone is worried. It's clear in the set of Lilia's jaw, obvious in the crease at Yakov's forehead; he catches them talking about him more than once, in low tones that cut off so abruptly when they see him the subject is clear even if the words aren't. Yuuko texts him daily, calls him twice before he stops checking his phone entirely, and Mila watches him from across the rink with a frown curving at her lips instead of her usual smile. Yuri ignores them all. It doesn't make a difference, it no more hurts him than it helps; it's enough that he's existing from one day to the next, enough that his jumps get cleaner and sharper with every repetition. Lilia tells him he's becoming mechanical, Yakov growls disapproval at the hours he spends practicing; but Yuri keeps going, working longer and longer hours until he's exhausted enough to slip into sleep deep enough that the dreams won't come, that he can fall asleep before the ocean of ceaseless tears breaks free from his chest to drown him and drag him under their murky surface. He sleeps, and he eats, and he goes to practice, and that's the whole of his existence.

He does have off days. Yakov insists, demands that he take rest days even when Yuri doesn't want them, when Yuri doesn't want to face the shadows of his too-quiet home and the weight of hours left unfilled by anything but the burden of his own thoughts. But he learns to deal with those too, by inventing recipes that always turn out horribly and sleeping for long swathes of the day to match the shadows of the night, and it's not pleasant and it's not satisfying but it's sustainable, at least for now, and Yuri feels sometimes like even that is more than he has the right to hope for.

It's on one of those rest days that the visitor arrives.

Yuri isn't expecting anyone. He was at the rink just yesterday to see everyone who lives anything less than a country away; it's wholly unlike Yakov or Lilia to make the walk out to intrude on his peace, and besides they have better things to do with their time than to babysit his now-solitary existence. He ought to have the house to himself to do whatever he chooses to do to fill the painful boredom of his day alone; and then there's a knock at the door, and Yuri can feel his whole body tense with the first wave of unpleasant strain.

He thinks it might be a relative, first. There are a few of those, members of his extended family who know him better from the television and news stories than they do from any of the few interactions he had with them when he was too young to properly learn anyone's name; he had to deal with them weeks before, had to wade through the array of strangers made into the pretense of family by their single shared grief, and he knew he was meant to feel comforted but he just felt defensive, as if he needed to protect himself from the onslaught to hold his own grief as unique, different, his own in a way none of his extended family would understand. He ignored the introductions made, used the excuse of his unhappiness to give him a reason for rudeness, but he suspects that won't work now, when everyone is expecting him to pull himself back together from a loss so shattering Yuri can't even imagine where to find the pieces of who he was. He stares at the door, grimacing in the anticipation of discomfort and wondering if he can pretend there's no one home; and then there's a voice, a call of _"Yuri?"_ that stiffens Yuri's spine with sudden irritation and blows his expression wide on shock. The voice is muffled, the tone half-lost to the weight of the door between Yuri and the speaker; but he knows that chirping tone, has spent too many wasted hours of his life listening to it in interviews and echoing over the cool clear of a skating rink, and he's on his feet and making for the door before he can think.

"Go _away_ ," he snaps, louder than he intends and before he can remember that he was thinking of pretending absence. "What are you _doing_ here, Viktor?"

 _"Hi!"_ Viktor chirps from the other side of the door, sounding inordinately cheerful for the circumstances. _"Yakov told me you'd be at home!"_

"Yakov is a senile bastard," Yuri snaps back, reaching out to slam his hand flat against the door as he scowls against the barrier between himself and the living legend on the other side of it. "I don't want to see anyone, least of all you!"

 _"Do you mean you want to be alone?"_ Viktor sounds sincerely curious, like he's struggling to form the obvious rejection of Yuri's words into something he can make sense of. _"I can go if you're happy on your own!"_

"I don't want to see anyone," Yuri repeats, feeling his jaw flex with irritation at having to trace back over his words again.

 _"I didn't ask if you wanted to see me,"_ Viktor says, his voice coming slow with a patronizing edge that drags anger at the corners of Yuri's mouth. _"I asked if you're happy."_

There's a pause. Yuri has his mouth open, has the words of confirmation ready to spill from his lips; but he can't find voice for them, can't find air in his lungs to fit around the shape of the lie. A second passes, a whole handful of them; finally he closes his mouth, and sets his jaw, and lets his next words come out grating over frustration against his teeth. "You didn't _ask_ me anything."

 _"Oh,"_ Viktor says, with that bright, innocent surprise as if he's a child instead of a grown adult with responsibilities and a reputation weighting on his shoulders. It makes Yuri want to hit him. _"I guess I didn't!"_

"Go away," Yuri says against the door. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to see _anyone_."

Viktor's hum is considering, almost gentle but for the volume it must be pitched at to carry so clearly past the weight of the door. _"Will you be happier alone?"_

Yuri glares at the door. He can feel anger tight in his chest, can feel fury pressing so hard at his temples there's a headache burning behind his eyes; and something else, something more, knotting against the back of his throat until he can barely fill his lungs past the obstruction. He glares at the door, feels his hands curling to fists at his sides; and then he hisses a wordless rush of irritation and reaches to turn the latch on the door. The deadbolt clicks open, the sound loud against the quiet of the room, and Yuri turns away without opening the door, leaving Viktor to manage the handle on his own while he retreats towards the familiarity of his bedroom.

"Ah!" Viktor exclaims as the door opens to send a rush of cold air sweeping against the back of Yuri's neck. "Thank you, Yuri!"

"Go to hell," Yuri says succinctly, leaving Viktor to the doorway while he turns the corner down the hall towards his bedroom. The cold air follows him, prickling over his skin to hunch his shoulders in close around his ears; by the time he's stepping through the door to his bedroom and moving to sit at the edge of his bed he can feel the tension down his whole spine, like a barely-repressed shiver fitting itself into the numb chill in his veins.

"It's quiet in here!" Viktor calls from the living room. He must be taking off his coat and boots; Yuri can hear the rustle of movement even all the way down the hall. It feels strange to hear someone else's presence in the house, as if the last few weeks have stripped away Yuri's knowledge of how to coexist with someone else in the space. The thought makes his chest ache, makes his eyes burn until he has to blink hard against the itching heat. From behind him there's the sound of Viktor kicking a boot against the wall, the patter of footsteps as the other approaches through the space of the living room. "Do you always keep it so dark?"

"It saves electricity," Yuri tells him with as much sarcasm as he can fit onto the words. "I know where everything is."

"Kind of dangerous for any visitors," Viktor observes, as calmly as if he's not invading Yuri's home, as if his presence isn't as absolutely unwanted as any of the cascade of sympathetic messages Yuri has had to wade through to get to this point. "What if I tripped and broke my neck, Yuri, you wouldn't want that, would you?"

"Go ahead," Yuri tells him. "Serves you right for coming in where you aren't wanted."

He can hear the sigh Viktor heaves even from over the distance between them. There's a moment of quiet, of silence unbroken even by the sound of Viktor's footsteps. Yuri doesn't look up to the doorway, even when the faint illumination from the living room windows is interrupted by the silhouette of Viktor standing in the doorway.

"Yuri." Viktor doesn't sound amused anymore; the offhand lilt of his voice has steadied, has flattened into the sincerity that Yuri has only heard from him a handful of times, when the other was watching from the edge of the ice instead of flowing across it himself. "Have you been alone all this time?"  
"I'm fine," Yuri says without lifting his head to meet Viktor's gaze. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Go away."

"You're sixteen," Viktor says, as if perhaps Yuri is unaware of his own age, as if this is something that needs to be brought to his attention. "You shouldn't be alone at a time like this."

"Oh, is that so?" Yuri snaps, anger pulling his gaze up to pin to Viktor standing in the doorway, his silver hair backlit by the ambient light from the living room into nearly a halo around his face. "What, did you get tired of playing coach and decide to play daddy instead?" If he had something within reach Yuri thinks he would hurl it towards Viktor's face; as it is he drags his fingers over the bedsheet under him, making a fist of the blankets and squeezing until his arm aches with the force. "I wouldn't want you as my parent if all the rest of my family were dead too."

Yuri is throwing his words like weapons, making sharp edges of them and flinging them over the distance to Viktor standing so calm and steady in the doorway in some half-formed hope of shattering the other's composure, of breaking through to the too-soft heart underneath, the fragile emotional core that makes him weak, that makes him less, that makes Yuri the better skater through and through. But Viktor just looks at him, his expression so blank Yuri wonders for a moment if he hadn't heard the other's words, if maybe he's going deaf as well as truly stupid, and Yuri is just opening his mouth to offer a question to that effect when Viktor says "Your grandfather died," with a strange, flat force to his words like he's reading from a dictionary, like he's making a comment about the weather. "You loved him, didn't you? It's okay to be upset."

Yuri gapes at Viktor for a moment. He's rendered mute for a heartbeat by the ache inside his chest, by the pressure spiking too high for him to bear; when he gasps a breath it's only through sheer force of will, and once his lungs are full they try to clench on the oxygen immediately, to expel it in a shout before he's decided what he wants to say.

" _What_ ," is what he starts with, the vicious fury of the word the clearest of the tangle of emotions pressing too-close against his chest. "Of _course_ I love him."

"You don't," Viktor says from the doorway, his voice still level and calm enough to match the steady blue of the gaze he's fixing Yuri with. "You _loved_ him." He doesn't blink, doesn't turn away from the fury Yuri can feel tensing in the whole of his expression. "He's dead, Yuri."

"I-" Yuri starts, and he can feel his throat tightening, can feel his shoulders hunching. "I _know_ ," he grates out, but he can hear the words falling to pieces over his tongue, can feel the sharp edges of them catching to tear bloody sobs from the smooth rhythm of his exhale. "Do you think I don't know that? I'm not a _kid_."

"You are," Viktor says, and Yuri can feel the weight of the words like a blow, like a burden too impossibly heavy for him to bear as it settles in against the hunched angle of his shoulders. "You're a kid. It's okay to ask for help."

" _I don't need it_ ," Yuri chokes, the words knotting in his throat until he can't breathe, until he's gasping for air that seems to have utterly abandoned him as much as everything else in his life has. "I don't need help, I don't, I can-" and his chest seizes on a sob, his whole body curves in around the weight of his grief, and he's tipping in over his knees, lifting both arms to clutch against his chest as he rattles through the effort of an inhale that seems to tear the cage he has made of his heart wide open to ache and bleed all over again. He can't breathe, for a moment the air around him seems so thin he can't even fill his lungs with enough oxygen to satisfy them; and then Viktor's voice, echoing with brutal clarity in his thoughts, _he's dead_ like a judgment from some uncaring god, and Yuri's hard-won breath rushes out of him in an awful sob so rough it rocks his whole body forward over his knees.

" _Fuck_ ," he says, or tries to say, but the sharp edges of the word lapse into a wail of pain instead, and then all his composure and all his anger disintegrate at once, giving way to misery so intense and all-encompassing Yuri can barely breathe through it, much less worry about the picture he's making of himself for Viktor's steady stare. His shoulders are shaking, his whole body is curling in to cradle his knees; he clutches against the texture of his jeans, fitting his hands in under his legs as he draws them up in some instinctive desire for protection, but the pressure against his chest doesn't help to fill the aching void he has in place of a heart. He can't breathe, he can't think, he certainly can't speak; all he can do is press his forehead to the rough denim of his jeans and sob helplessly against the fabric, his lashes spilling damp to soak through the cloth and cling to his skin while his shoulders shake with the overwhelming force of the grief in him. He can feel his heart aching with every gasping sob that spills against his knees, can feel the sense of loss inside him fray wide and gaping with every sound that tears from his throat; even the shift of the bed next to him isn't enough to break him free of the immersion of his emotion, even the touch of Viktor's hand at his shoulder doesn't have any effect except to tighten his position tighter around his knees.

"You can keep crying," Viktor tells him, as if he has some kind of dominance over Yuri's emotions, as if it's only through his allowance that Yuri can be permitted to go on crying. Yuri wants to snap something to this effect, to lash out at Viktor's assumption of his own control over the situation; but the rasp of sobs in his throat won't allow it, the drag of air hiccuping desperately in his chest won't spare him the oxygen to frame around the shape of words. He can't speak, can barely manage to keep himself conscious for the half-panicked gasps of air he's managing; so he just stays where he is, crying so hard against his knees he feels like he's about to shake apart, while Viktor shifts into something like comfort next to him and lays his arm heavy around the hunch of Yuri's shoulders.

"It's okay," Viktor says, his voice steady and soothing, and Yuri wants to tell him to fuck off, that he doesn't want his comfort, that he doesn't need his presence; but he can't breathe, he can't stop crying, and when Viktor's hand presses against his shoulder he tips in closer instead of jerking away, as if all the resistance in his body has given way along with whatever dam was holding back his tears. Viktor's warm against him, even with the chill from outside clinging to his clothes; it's strange to feel something so warm, stranger to realize how long it's been since Yuri was close enough to another person to borrow their body heat like this. "You're allowed to cry."

"I _know_ ," Yuri chokes out, and that's as much as he can manage before the tears sweep over him again, stealing his breath and his voice and even his sense of time passing from around him. All he can feel is the ache in his chest, the dull weight of unbearable pressure against his heart, until all there is for him to do is to sob through the minimal relief that each gasping exhale brings him, giving voice to his own misery with enough volume that he can hear the echo of his own voice bouncing back from the walls around him.

It stops, eventually. Yuri can still feel grief aching in him, can still feel loss like a vice around his heart with every thud of his pulse, but his tears run out, finally, until they've given way to hiccuping sobs and the ache of a headache against his temples. He feels exhausted, drained down to his very core in a way even his best performances have never left him; when he finally stops crying he can feel his whole body trembling slightly, like his muscles have gone too weak to support him to upright anymore.

Viktor clears his throat. "You done?" he asks, and lets his arm fall from around Yuri's shoulders. "I didn't expect I'd ever see you fall apart like that."

"Fuck _you_ ," Yuri snaps, pushing himself upright and away from Viktor with more irritation than actual strength to back up the movement. His hands are shaking uncontrollably when he lifts them to his face; his attempt to rub at his tear-swollen cheeks doesn't do much but drag his sleeve over his eyes, but at least he's making the attempt. "My grandpa died, I'm allowed to cry."

"Sure," Viktor agrees. "It's still weird to see." He sounds almost chipper, not at all apologetic or even particularly affected himself; when Yuri looks at him sideways Viktor is looking around the room rather than at him, his interest obviously holding more to the objects surrounding them than to Yuri himself. Yuri frowns, feeling vaguely offended at being ignored, but there's a relief in it too, at being allowed to experience his own grief without trying to take on the burden of sympathizing with someone else's as well.

"So," Viktor says, without looking at Yuri or away from the attention he's giving to one of the posters on the wall. "What are you planning to do?"

Yuri blinks. "What?" His voice sounds strange, raw and scratchy in his throat; he frowns at the grate of it, coughs to clear his throat before he goes on speaking. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
"Do you really want to stay here?" Viktor asks, and he's looking back to Yuri, fixing him with the strange pale blue of his eyes that always seem to see through whatever he's looking at without offering any connection along the way, pure objectivity without emotional complexity. "Sitting around sulking in an empty house can't be very good for your career."

"Screw you," Yuri spits. "Is my career really all you're worried about?"  
"It can't be very good for you either," Viktor offers back, returning resistance to more than match Yuri's reflexive aggression. "Do you need a place to stay? Yuuri said he wouldn't mind you coming to stay with us for a while, if you want the company."

"I don't want _any_ company," Yuri hisses, feeling his shoulders tense with the rejection of Viktor's words. "I want to be _alone_."

"Obviously," Viktor agrees in that same objective, cheerful tone. "That doesn't mean you _should_ be alone."

"Who cares?" Yuri demands, ducking his head to rub against the wet still catching his lashes to uncomfortable weight and drying salty against his face. "I can do what I want, can't I?"

"No," Viktor says, and Yuri lifts his head again, startled out of his distraction by this unexpected response. Viktor is gazing at him, his eyes clear and his mouth set; he looks steady, certain of himself, not angry or frustrated but just calm, like he's telling Yuri a truth about the world instead of his own opinion. "You can't keep hurting yourself like this." He tosses his head, the movement reflexive to knock his hair back from his eyes; it's a strange motion to see under the circumstances, something better suited for the glow of lights at a press conference than for the dark of Yuri's dimly-illuminated bedroom. "The people who care about you won't let you."

Yuri can feel his throat tense, can feel tears rising as if to choke him back to silence. "Shut up," he says, but the words come weak, and he has to duck his head again as Viktor turns to look at him just to hide the spill of damp at his lashes. There's a pause, a moment of quiet as Yuri feels Viktor's calm stare against the top of his head; and then Viktor clears his throat, the sound clear as a bell against the rough edge of Yuri's breathing sticking in his chest.

"Come stay with Yuuri and I," he says, the words a statement and not a question. "You'll feel better for the company."

"No I won't," Yuri says towards his knees. "I'll hate it. I hate you."

"You might as well try it," Viktor tells him. "Then if you have a terrible time you can prove me wrong!"

"I don't have to prove anything," Yuri growls, and reaches out to shove hard against Viktor's shoulder. "Go away, I don't want to see you or your stupid pig boyfriend."

"Ow," Viktor says without any real vehemence to the exclamation. "Yuuri's really worried about you, you know, he's the one who said I should come check on you."

"That explains a lot," Yuri snaps. "You would never care enough to come on your own."

" _I care_ ," Viktor says, and his voice is so sharp that it breaks Yuri's response off to silence in his throat and brings his attention swinging up to land at the other's face. Viktor is staring at him, his forehead creased and mouth tight on the start of what looks like a frown; Yuri's never seen him look so serious, even when he was making an attempt at being the coach he was never cut out to be. Viktor's eyes look dark, now, as if a storm has rolled in over the clear ice-blue they usually offer; his expression is enough to knot against the inside of Yuri's chest with strange, nostalgic guilt like he hasn't felt since he was a child and being called out for doing wrong.

"I've been worried about you too," Viktor goes on, his voice as hard as the blue of his stare. "I wanted to leave you alone to figure things out yourself but Yuuri said you probably wanted someone to come looking for you."

Yuri's mouth drops open, his shoulders tense on anger. "I _never_ -"

"I think he was right," Viktor says, talking right over Yuri without even hesitating. He tosses his hair back from his face again, an unconscious and efficient reminder of the grace that has won him the Grand Prix Final five years in a row, that has made him the endpoint of so many of Yuri's goals. "You should come stay with us for a week or two." He braces a hand at the bed to steady himself as he pushes to his feet. "I won't make you. You're old enough to be responsible for your own decisions." He puts his hands into his pockets and looks back over his shoulder at Yuri. "But you're not the first person to lose someone. It's okay to ask for help."

Yuri scowls at him. "I don't need help," he says, but it comes out less sincere than he intends it to, and Viktor just keeps staring at him like he's seeing through Yuri's attempt at dissembling. Yuri frowns harder and ducks his head to hide from Viktor's attention behind the fall of his hair.

"I don't need help," he repeats, mumbling the words towards his knees without trying to push them to clarity at his lips. "I'm _fine_." He takes a breath and lets his voice tense into irritable capitulation, like he uses sometimes when Yakov tells him to take a break or Lilia tells him to keep his posture straight after hours of practice. "If it'll make your stupid boyfriend feel better, I'll come and show him I'm fine myself."

The sound of Viktor clapping his hands together is loud in the enclosed space of the room. "Yuri!" he chirps, his voice that particularly frustrating pitch of cheer that always grates Yuri's nerves raw no matter the context. "That's wonderful news!"

"It's not for _me_ ," Yuri snaps, and he lifts his head to meet the brilliance of Viktor's smile with the darkest scowl he can find. "It's not worth beating either of you if you're going to use worrying about me as an excuse to be at less than your best."

"Of course," Viktor says, smiling like Yuri's saying something completely different than what he's offering. When he reaches out it's to touch his fingers to Yuri's hair and ruffle through the strands with a casual affection that makes Yuri hiss and reach up to shove his hand away. "We'll be happy to have you as long as you want!"

"Whatever," Yuri says. "Will you get out now?"

"Of course!" Viktor says, and he's suiting words to actions as quickly as he speaks, backing out of Yuri's room and turning towards the front door without hesitation. Yuri keeps scowling at him as the other moves through the living room, glaring in silence while Viktor shrugs back into his coat and fits his boots back on; it's only as the other is reaching for the door that Yuri opens his mouth to speak.

"Viktor," he says, pitching his voice loud to carry over the distance to the front door. Viktor pauses and turns back to look towards the bedroom, and Yuri ducks his head again to hide his expression behind the fall of his hair. There's speech in his chest, words threatening the back of his tongue; but he can't unclench his jaw enough to let them free, can feel his face heating with self-consciousness just at the thought of giving them voice.

There's a moment of silence. Yuri can feel the space between himself in his room and Viktor at the door going tense with anticipation, with the possibility of the speech he isn't offering. And then Viktor huffs a laugh, the sound bright and warm against the dark of the house, and Yuri can hear the door draw open to let in a spill of cold air.

"You're welcome, Yuri," Viktor calls back, and then he's gone, stepping out of the entrance and drawing the door shut behind him without looking back to see Yuri's head come up or to see the flush of color that rises to instant heat all across the other's face. Yuri's mouth is open, protest and rejection harsh on his tongue; but the door is shutting, closing off the possibility of rejection before he can offer it, and in the end he closes his mouth to leave his anger as unvoiced as his unfinished statement was.

It doesn't make a difference, anyway. Yuri is certain his silent gratitude is clearly understood.


End file.
